Aleksey Savchenko - Cyberside

A glass of bourbon arrives at the counter via Dolores’ trembling hands. Still staring at the newcomer to his town, Oliver thanks the waitress. James assumes the Sherriff is attempting to access information from the same program he encountered earlier.

“Ok, listen… ‘just James’: This is a peaceful town, and I’d prefer it stay that way. We don’t need any trouble here from you mercenary types. Best mind your manners while you’re here, and we won’t have any problems.”

Taciturn returns his attention back to his coffee, talking to the sheriff through the corner of his mouth.

“It’s funny, Oliver. I heard things were pretty far from peaceful in Homestead. In fact, the way I hear it, for such a small town, you’ve been having quite a lot of problems recently.” Taciturn lets this sink in, and then continues. “Of course, I’m not calling you a liar. I’m just suggesting we have a friendly conversation about all the troubles your community isn’t having.”

The room goes quiet.

James calmly sips more of his coffee and knows he’s hit the right nerve. He glances up at the wall-length mirror behind the counter and watches the patrons pay close, false attention to their meals and drinks. The sudden absence of patron-chatter makes it thunderingly apparent how focused they are on the exchange between the town’s sheriff and the mysterious stranger.

Oliver’s shoulders lose some of their authoritative rigidity. “Well, James, you might not be too far from the truth. Matter of fact, if you’re truly a Taciturn, this town might have need of someone with your particular expertise.”

Seizing the opening, James waves to the waitress. “Dolores, was it? Could I get one of whatever he’s drinking?” Within moments, a fresh glass and a half bottle of bourbon have been placed in front of them.

A few drinks in, the sheriff is well on his way to elaborating on the community’s problems.

“We noticed something wrong a while back but couldn’t figure out what was causing the trouble. When we did… well… I’ll just say it plain. I hope you’ve had experience hunting demons, James.”

“I’ve been known to.” Taciturn says, before taking a calculated, slow sip of the brown liquid. “Last time I was out this far was Locale 24-9.”

Oliver furrows his brow, staring deeply into his glass. “Christ, 24-9? Are you talking about the Bakersfield Incident? From what we heard, not many of you mercs made it out of that shitshow in one piece.”

In truth, James is surprised that much detail at all has traveled this far out, and he’d just as soon not recall any more detail than necessary. He picks up his own glass gazing into its new depths. “Yeah.”

Oliver shakes his head in disbelief. “Damn. Still… you took out the last nest of Stack Rats. That’s got to count for something. Your arrival could be just the break we’ve been looking for. I think it’s safe to say we have a pretty good idea of what’s terrorizing us, James. There’s a… Scry on the loose.”

Taciturn makes no sound or visible movement at the utterance of the word – but he feels the hairs at the back of his neck standing up. His mind jams up with a torrent of vivid images, none of them welcome. The dangerous mutations were created when humanity first downloaded its collective consciousness into the digital world. Defects in the process, turning people into monsters .

Once upon a time in the Real World, the Scry would have gone by the name succubus, or vampire . In the Cyberside, their name is shorthand for their well-developed ability to break through a victim’s firewalls and drain their life, identity, and skills. After the Scry have taken everything, only information dust remains.

And there is so much dust in this town.

James comes back to himself and finds that Oliver is still speaking: “At first the disappearances were few and random, but soon it was whole farms. Men, woman, and children, being taken at night. We sent out search parties but never found anything or anyone.”

Taciturn takes another drink from his glass. “And what makes you sure it’s a Scry?”

Oliver shakes his head. “See, that’s the thing. We thought it might have been raiders, but there were no signs of struggle at the ranches. No bullet holes. No locks broken. Only that damn dust everywhere. It’s almost as if—”

And Taciturn finishes the sheriff’s sentence.

“—As if something were welcomed in. Yeah, that fits the pattern of a Scry. Still, something doesn’t seem…” Taciturn deliberately derails his own train of thought by pouring more of the bourbon into his glass.

Confirming his assumption that everyone has been eavesdropping, the old woman yells out. “Have you dealt with one of these Scry before? Is it really true what they say about them?”

Before responding, Taciturn takes a moment to consider how truly terrible the bourbon tastes. Then he turns his attention to how he can best answer the question. Looking around the room, a plan begins to form in his mind. He doesn’t want to start a panic, just yet.

“I guess that depends on what you’ve heard. Scry differ in their approaches. The…” James takes a moment to internally debate terminology, then continues. “The creature typically presents itself as an attractive person, or a helpless being. I don’t know. Maybe your missing townsfolk saw an injured teenager, maybe a lost child. That’s how it gets you to welcome it. To invite it in.”

“But what do they do to you?” asks another unsteady voice from elsewhere in the saloon.

The crowd is responding as expected, and Taciturn continues.

“Again, it depends. Once inside, a Scry will deceive you and your family with an artificial sincerity. It won’t even have to tear down your personal firewalls; you’ll do it. All while the creature tries to access your personal logs – logs it pores over for any information it can use to string you further along. It wants you emotionally invested in it.” The words are like bile in James’ throat.

A frightened Dolores mutters, “So it can eat your insides…”

Lowering his voice so only Oliver can hear, Taciturn mutters, “Look, Sheriff, maybe you’d like to take this conversation somewhere else…”

The sheriff pours more of the bourbon into his glass. “No, James. These people have a right to know what’s happened to their friends.”

Aware that everyone’s attention is focused on him, James continues. “Once the victim becomes emotionally invested, the Scry will infect their target’s directories with a virus. One that increases the victim’s attraction to it.”

Taciturn downs the rest of his drink, and the sheriff follows suit. “In the end, you become so immersed you don’t even notice the Scry’s final move. With your barriers down, it feeds on your life force picking apart and consuming everything that makes you who you are.”

The silence may mean he’s said too much. James waits for Oliver to speak next.

“Sounds to me, mercenary, that you know these… things well enough. Okay, it’s a good thing you came along. But how do you kill it?”

Taciturn cracks his knuckles. “I’ve found bullets work just as well as the next thing.” Letting his words sink into the room, he sets his own plan in motion. Standing up, he places some credit chips on the counter – to everyone’s apparent confusion.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Taciturn nods a thanks to the waitress and turns to Oliver.

“Me? I’m going to set up camp outside of town. Sounds like you folks have a Scry problem. I’m just passing through.”

The commotion boils behind him as he heads for the doors. A confused Oliver, just slightly staggering now, follows him into the street.